Harry Potter and the Time of Green Angel Vespers
by en extase
Summary: A fallen rose, a green angel imprisoned in ivy, the amber eyes of an owl. By a dark edict of fate, a dying Harry awakens not in the afterlife, but in a time and place where someone else bears the scar: the 15 year-old Elise Potter... The Girl Who Lived.
1. Endgame

**Harry Potter and the Time of Green Angel Vespers**

_Chapter 1 / Endgame_

by en extase

Silvery midnight flowed like finespun silk through the blackstone pines. The pathfinder threaded his way forward, careful not to lose his footing over the dead branches, rotting husks of broken saplings, and loose scree that paved the way. The moon illumined everything and basking in the backscatter of yesterday's sunlight, he found himself in a reminiscent state of mind.

His younger self had never recognized the sad, ethereal beauty of the Forbidden Forest. The way the night sought to keep its graces hidden from the stars that shimmered between the leaves like seeds of light. Where once he only heard the prowling of wolves and deadlier things, he heard the wind whispering in harmony with the pale fronds overhead. He could feel the thrum of the forest's faint heartbeat, pulsing in rhythm with the nocturnal song of nighthawks.

The fear and uncertainty of his twelve year-old self were gone, relics of long ago.

If anything, the Forbidden Forest feared _him._.. It had a long memory, and it would remember his deeds here for a long time to come.

Moths buzzed their wings in the hollowed cores of two fallen trees that lay criss-crossing one another, guarding their larvae as he passed. The wildflowers at his feet had folded their petals and were steeped by dew, and amethyst foxglove was beginning to blossom in topsoil mingled with ashes and lingering curses.

It saddened him to see the wounds the forest still bore.

_Heal, and be not afraid,_ he bade the Forest silently,_ I promise I won't let this place be despoiled again..._

Drawing his mantle tighter around his neck, he stood still for a moment, searching for any sign of the elusive trail of footprints.

No use.

_I'm not close enough yet._

Like he'd done the last half-dozen times he had checked for tracks, he marked the trunk of the nearest tree with a shallow incision and made to move on. This time though, something held him back and he couldn't bring himself to move again. He was standing on an pathway winding up a slope that granted him an elevated viewpoint over the lower treeline of the forest floor...

He'd resisted the impulse for the entirety of his journey, but somehow he'd always known that he would give in.

He looked west against his better judgement.

His heart skipped a beat as he laid eyes on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy for the first time in three years. He could see the castle looming silent where the horizon met the sea of darkness above, tall turrets and minarets silhouetted against the silvery clouds. It was dark, its student populace deep in slumber at this moonlit hour. Its eastern facade was beautiful and unmarred as if it had been left untouched by the ravages of the war.

But it hadn't.

Travel westward along the outer edge of the castle grounds, and eventually one would see the ruins of Gryffindor Tower, the mortar and stone crumbling and the windows grimy and cracked.

Walk another two hundred meters and you would see the corpses gazing down at you in the quad.

Go further still, and you would see the black-sailed ships leaving the boathouse.

_I once called you home._

He wanted so desperately to go back. To walk the hallways and climb the moving staircases. To watch the movements of the night sky from his seat in the Great Hall, surrounded by the chatter of his housemates. To look out from the highest landing of the owlery and watch the reddening sunrise with Hedwig curled up in his lap, head tucked under her wing. She was usually asleep by dawn, but was willing enough to grace her master with her company for a few minutes.

He wished for a great many things.

_Heh... You just had to look, didn't you..._

The path branched. He could have gone straight but chose to turn left, and soon he was encompassed by trees on all sides. A part of him still marveled at his own stupidity in coming here. Hogwarts and its borderlands had been lost over five years ago, and in that timeframe a myriad defenses would surely have layered them.

But then again, grave times demand grave measures. A proverb of a Noble and Most Ancient House that had gone extinct when the goblin wars had raged. One he had no choice but to live by.

He'd known all along that the risks would be incalculable, and already there were signs that his decision to come here was ill-conceived.

For one, he was being stalked.  
_  
"Hoot, hoot.."_

A wild owl with glowing amber eyes was following him. Or at least he assumed it to be so, he supposed it could belong to a student within the castle. It flitted from branch to branch, keeping a safe distance from him.

It was distracting.

"Quit looking at me like that," he growled at it.

It looked back at him fearlessly, not acknowledging his command in the slightest. He looked away as he took another step, and looked back in time to see it land on a nearer tree.

When he resumed moving, it resumed shadowing him like clockwork. When he stopped, it did as well, idly ruffling its wings and occasionally pecking at insects within striking range of its beak. He was tempted to blast it away with a rush of wind but quelled the urge.

It was a peculiar creature but he sensed no threat or malignant intelligence from it. For the time being he would consider it yet another unusual denizen of the forest. He would keep an eye on it.

He absently closed a hand around the pendant hanging from the necklace he wore. Its surface was cool and reassuring to the touch.

Still, there was something else... An oppressive feeling, a heaviness in the air like the gathering of a storm.

He gnawed his bottom lip as he studied the maze-like expanse in front of him. He reckoned he should try again.

_"Coursus."_

Footprints moulded themselves out of the dirt, depressions renewed as if they were moments old, disappearing. He inspected them closer and saw they were not left by human feet, but by hooves.

He followed them, the owl still tailing him.

Now that he had the scent, so to speak, his progress quickened substantially.

At last the trees gave way, and there it was.

The forgotten chapel and ensorcelled lake.  
_  
So it does exist._

His boots made squelching sounds with each step as they sunk into the moss-covered ground.

The hoof-prints ended at the water's edge. He frowned as he came to a dead stop, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. The wine-dark water rippled softly, the reflection of the veil of stars and the full moon a gently rolling tapestry. He stood there, eyes fixed on the chapel, waves gently lapping at his feet. Twin spires rose to the twilit sky, and blind arcades jutted from the masonry face under darkened stained-glass windows. A stone platform held it above the lake and a water stair led to the entrance.

He was relieved that he hadn't come here for nothing.

Now to actually reach it.

"_Glacies Calis_," he murmured, thrusting his wand forward.

A byway of water froze in a straight line to the chapel along the path of his wandstroke, and a bridge of glittering ice stretched before him. But the ice did not take, crumbling into pieces within moments and sinking beneath the surface.

He sighed.

He'd been told to expect the lake to be warded, and his source had been right. It had thwarted his ice enchantment almost instantaneously.

_Guess I'm going for a swim then._

He tightened his grip on his wand and took a long, deep breath, and held it.

He waded in, shuddering as the water swirled around his form, embracing him and rising swiftly up to his neck. He grimaced as it closed over his head, now fully submerged, and kicked off a bar of salt to propel himself forward. The depths were green as malachite, the moonlight reluctant to travel further than a scant few feet past the surface. The waters were murky, filled with rotting reeds and stray watercress strands drifting in and out of his vision, forcing him to brush them out of his way with nearly every sweep of his arms.

His gaze narrowed as he saw a dark shape beginning to materialize in front of him.

Fingertips, nails painted an eccentric pink and black, then an outstretched hand reaching out to him.

A girl.

A dreamy expression, eyes closed as if asleep, the halo of her golden hair shimmering.

Then her expression abruptly changed, the lines around the eyes tightening in terror and mouth opening in a silent scream. A slit appeared across her throat, and blood poured out.

He reached out, inwardly bracing himself as they drew closer, but the girl vanished before their hands could meet.

He kicked harder, feeling sickened as he glided further.

Another twenty meters or so, and his heart broke.

A boy with fiery red hair, a girl with bushy, chestnut brown hair. Their faces hidden, but he knew who they were.

They were holding hands.

He almost whimpered, and a burst of bubbles left his mouth and rapidly ascended out of sight.

God, they looked so _peaceful _together.

His younger self would have revolted against this and shattered the illusions one by one, his fury implacable.

But he didn't.

He endured the phantasmagoria in silence. He wanted to close his eyes, but found that he could not even do that.

Maybe that just how fucked up he was, so desperate and so besotted by grief he couldn't bear to look away. The lake's conjurations of his friends and loved ones were so real. The slightly hazy images in his head and the precious few photographs that had faded at the corners were nothing compared to this.

So he watched.

He had no way of knowing whether he was crying as he swam past the ghostly procession, their deaths playing out in front of him.

A veil of silvery-blonde hair and a face so lovely that it must have been inhuman.

A gaunt, sunken face that had once been handsome.

Half-moon spectacles resting on a crooked nose.

Maybe being older wasn't such an advantage after all.

Then it was over. His head smashed unyielding stone, and he tilted his body and surged upward. He gasped as he emerged, water droplets flying from his hair as he gulped in air greedily. He dragged himself up the water stair and lay there, chest heaving.

_Just figments of your imagination,_ he thought bitterly.

He wasn't sure how much time passed like he lay there, his breath gradually returning to him. Finally, he vanished the water drenching his garments and climbed to his feet, his expression cold.

He'd arrived here stern and watchful, and his passage through the waters had changed that in a hurry. Alastor Moody would have gone stark raving mad at his lapse in Constant Vigilance, he thought ruefully.

He glanced at one of the gargoyles flanking the stairway. Its eye flicked toward him dispassionately for a moment before returning forward, as if he were nothing more than an errant blackbird that had landed to try and pick at insects skimming the water.

He took a calming breath as he climbed the steps, and stood between the white pillars that framed the doorway. A viper was carved into the ivory of the door with gleaming rubies for eyes.

It was now or never.

_Open_, he hissed in Parseltongue, and the door obeyed. The ruby eyes met his as its body uncoiled and the hidden locks unfastened.

He stepped inside cautiously. The air was old and stagnant, and he welcomed the surge of wind that came in with him. His eyes were by now acclimated to the darkness and he strode down the long entryway toward the vestibule at the end. Where there should have been a keystone at the zennith of the vault there was instead an oculus.

Moonlight fell from it, pooling and encircling a tomb at its center. It was mounted on a raised dais and a graceful arabesque of entwined serpents was engraved on its surface.

He looked warily as he approached the resting place of the great-grandson of Salazar Slytherin.

Three statues held watch over it, one on the opposite side of the tomb as the entryway and the other too bordering the other corners of the room. Beyond the tallest statue, the features of Salazar Slytherin were outlined by the radiating spokes of the stained-glass portrait.

As he drew closer, he saw that there was a figure lying in the dark, slumped over and unmoving against the lowest tier of the dais, and he knew he was too late.

"_Lumos,_" he muttered.

He recoiled from the corpse of a centaur. Flies crawled over its face, their wings beating incessantly. Dreadlocked hair obscured its features and he felt a throe of fear for the briefest of instants. He gazed in dismay at the festering carcass.  
_  
So Magorian lies dead as well…_

He chuckled sadly. He'd known none of the centaurs well, but knowing that they were gone made him sorrowful.

He could hear Hermione's reproachful voice in his mind.  
_  
Harry, I told you this was a trap. And deep down, you knew it too... Why do you do this to yourself?_

_Because I've run out of options, 'Mione..._

The pendant started to radiate heat in waves, each more scalding than the last.

He bit his lower lip.

"Majestic, is it not?"

He turned, wand pointed toward the entrance.

His uninvited guest strode in, the shadows melting from his form as the light from his wandpoint washed over him. Harry had to admit, Voldemort looked resplendent, clad in obsidian armor and cloak clasped by a brooch bearing the Slytherin sigil.

A pale face, its age deceiving the eye.

A wand of yew, the brother of his own.

"It's fitting that we should meet here, with the scions of the greatest wizard to ever live as our witness..."

Voldemort showed no sign of worry or intimidation as he strode closer. Harry hesitated, holding his ground until the last five meters separated them and his nemesis showed no sign of stopping. He shifted to his right, following the circle of the chamber as Voldemort reached the vestibule and moved to the other side, unworried that Harry would strike.

"That is Lord Noradhi, the only son of Salazar," the Dark Lord spoke, drawing Harry's attention to the statue of the austere-looking wizard to his right.

Unlike his forefather, Noradhi's face was smooth and clean-shaven, and his gaze was imperious. His statue wore a signet ring on its finger, bearing a black stone.

Harry circled the circumference of the dais, keeping Voldemort opposite of him. Waves of heat were rolling off the pendant, searing his chest and he felt the inlaid enchantment start to agitate. He felt the impulse to lash out with all his might, but held it in check.

"Behind you stands Lady Idris, his sister..."

A witch who was the mirror image of her brother, beautiful with long, flowing hair. She wore a circlet of interweaving gold and silver and encrusted gemstones.

"And here..." Voldemort whispered reverently as he raised a pale hand to touch the cheek of the third statue of a beautiful witch with hair as long as Idris' but with saddened eyes.

Harry's eyes were drawn to the gold locket that hung on her neck, bearing a serpentine S, inlaid with glittering, green stones.

"... stands Lady Enarni, daughter of Idris. It is through her and the House of Gaunt that I trace my lineage to the great Salazar himself..."

Harry smirked, unfazed by the theatrics.

_So many snakes in one room. _

"Do you feel lonely?" he asked with a hint of mockery in his voice, "Knowing that you are all that remains of his bloodline?"

Voldemort let his arm fall to his side and turned to face Harry.

"And you?" he returned. "It seems that those you call your friends are all very much dead."

The side of Harry's mouth twitched, but he did not rise to the provocation.

"I must admit my surprise that you were foolish enough to come here…" Voldemort continued, "I do suppose desperation does make one do foolish things."

"Not desperation," Harry said forcefully, raising his wand so that the opposing wall was bathed in pearlescent light. "Things have changed since we last met."

Voldemort's shadow loomed higher and his smile widened.

"If I recall correctly, our last meeting did not go overly well for you…" His eyes glittered with malice. "... But then again, you did not have _that_ in your possession."

His gaze drifted lower, lingering on the pendant that glowed like crystallized fire over Harry's chest.

"What crypt did you pilfer to come by that?" the Dark Lord asked quietly, a look of recognition spreading across his inhuman, waxen features.

Harry smiled.

"Made it myself."

He briefly wondered what his dead friends, his fallen guardians, his slain mentors would say.

_Get out of there, you aren't ready!_

_Harry, you have to retreat... wait for your opportunity._

_Think of everything that will be lost if you die..._

The truth was, he didn't feel like he had walked into a trap. To retrieve the relics of Salazar Slytherin and to deny them to the Dark Lord would have been a boon, but the thought that kept replaying in his head over and over again was that Voldemort had come to him alone.

_It's just you and me, Tom._

Five long years had turned him into something none of his friends could have foreseen.

So many had fallen to buy him the time he needed to become powerful enough to become the Dark Lord's equal.

_No more deaths_, he silently resolved, _None but yours. Or mine._

No more pawns to trade, nor bishops to stain their hands red.

No more knights to fall, nor castles to hide in nor queens to save him.

Harry flexed his fingers as he slid into a duelling stance, the brilliant white light emanating from his wand warping into a deep crimson glow.

"First," he said, "We bow."

_..._

_**A/N: **I've been wanting to read a Harry/fem!Harry story lately, but there are only a handful of them, and not all of them are that readable. So I'm giving this a shot. Thanks to AlbusPHolmes and Swimdraconian for taking a look at the plot outline and giving much needed feedback. _


	2. Parting Gifts

**Harry Potter and the Time of Green Angel Vespers**

_Chapter 2 / Parting Gifts_

by en extase

For two men ordained to be mortal enemies by nothing less than destiny itself, they were civil when it came to settling things. They bowed to each other with the tomb in between them, wands held at their sides. There was a look of guarded curiosity on Voldemort's face as he straightened and regarded his green-eyed nemesis. The younger man seemed... more confident, and this intrigued him. There was an air of uncertainty to this occasion. It had been so long since they last faced each other that it almost seemed surreal to find themselves suddenly on the brink of battle; now, in the dead of night and without heralds.

Voldemort held up a hand.

Frowning, Harry let the light at the end of his wand die out.

"What is it?" he snapped.

Voldemort merely smiled in response, and he hissed a long rolling phrase in Parseltongue. The tall window bearing Salazar's stained-glass mural unraveled, the spokes delineating the lines of his face pulling away from each other. The sound of gears turning surrounded them as the shards slid into the hidden recesses of the rest of the vaulted arch.

"Let us step outside," the Dark Lord suggested, extending his arm to the breach in an 'after you' gesture.

His instinct was to balk at anything even approaching agreement with his foe, but it made sense tactically to get out of close quarters where a single spell gone awry would end both of them. He also sensed the other motive behind Voldemort's request: to spare collateral damage to the Slytherin ancestral tomb. Salazar may have been the root cause of his descendant's hate-filled ideals, but at the end of the day, he was still one of the Four Founders. The chapel was a piece of Hogwarts' legacy, or at least an extension of it. And that was enough to stay his hand.

"You know me too well."

Moonlight glittered down on the stone promontory adjoined to the rear of the chapel as Harry stepped onto it. He did his best to seem calm and composed, walking unhurriedly to one end without turning his back. Voldemort's intercession, that little appeal to Harry's sentiment toward all that was connected to Hogwarts, had taken him right out of the dueling mentality. He'd been ready, his mind free of second-guessing and nervousness. Now, his nerves were wound up like piano wire as Voldemort followed him outside.

There was a fourth statue, overlooking the water's edge with its back turned to the chapel. This one was different from the others. It was as green as the lake's depths instead of the marble grey of the three guarding the tomb. All he could see were two angelic wings, each painstakingly carven with hundreds of long, graceful pinions, and the graceful curve of a slender, feminine neck.

This was an unconventional duelling grounds, but he felt more comfortable in the open air than in the confines of the vestibule. It was likely the same for Voldemort. The dark thought crossed his mind as he came to a stop and turned, facing Voldemort again.

_It's fine._

He had spent countless days from waking hour to nightfall thinking how he'd confront him. Playing out scenarios endlessly and pondering vague hypotheses. He would play to his own strengths, not fight to deny Voldemort advantages.

But there was still one complicating factor that troubled him and now loomed at the forefront of his mind. He glanced to the side, eyeing the serene waters that surrounded them uneasily.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Voldemort spoke.

"You needn't worry about the lake. It is my will that the enchantments not bother us while we," he smiled as he searched for the appropriate words, "... settle matters."

"Must be nice," Harry said a touch of envy, "being the heir of a Founder."

Like a shadow, doubt and fear could never be fully shaken off. The man standing before him had taken everything from him.

The only thing Voldemort hadn't taken from him was his life. Like a bad luck charm he kept turning up despite the lengths Voldemort had gone to destroy him. Harry suspected that the Dark Lord wasn't as confident as he portrayed himself to be either, coming here dressed in full battle regalia. This was not the gloating goliath come to take his head without having made precautions.

There must be a seed of uncertainty in Voldemort's mind as well. So many opportunities and encounters and he couldn't kill an untrained boy. And against all odds, that boy was all grown up now. The thought must have occurred to him that, perhaps, he wasn't meant to defeat Harry after all. Perhaps fate had decreed he would ultimately fail here and now, just like his efforts in the past.

"Anything else?" Harry asked, the mocking tone back in his voice.

Voldemort inclined his head.

"No. We may begin."

Without wasting another moment he brought his wand around in a swift, vicious arc. Voldemort reacted instantly as Harry had known he would, rearing back and conjuring a shield to intercept the streak of angry crimson leaping from the end of his wand. Harry pressed forward, unleashing a torrent of blasting curses, assault charms, shieldbreakers. They unraveled in starbursts of light as they met Voldemort's shield but it did not give. The liquid sheen hovering in front of Voldemort rippled as if hit by raindrops, twisting and reforming as its conjurer moved backward, an almost bored expression on his face. Harry did not relent, wand slashing downward through the air in his bid to push the Dark Lord back even further.

Voldemort was always one to be mindful of his environment. He reached the edge of the promontory as he swatted Harry's spell away without looking, and stepped off. But instead of falling, he rose, taking flight and gracefully rising through the air, the hem of his robes fluttering about his feet. Harry followed onto the water without hesitation, incensed by that thrice-damned ability to take flight without the aid of a broomstick. He'd never found out how Voldemort accomplished that feat.

_Glacies callis_, he intoned mentally.

An ice bridge formed across the water and he slida cross it curses flying from his wand like gunshots. Voldemort deflected the fusillade and without warning he sent a great spearhead of violet-black light of his own hurtling down like a falling comet, warping the air with its passage.

The world seemed to slow at times like this.

It struck the ice bridge barely five meters ahead. The eruption was like that of a depth charge. Ice shattered and sent fault lines through the entire bridge, fracturing it and instantly destroying its structure. He shifted his weight, intentionally upsetting his balance and letting slam feet-first into the water.

The cold blasted him. He floundered, swept away. His arm dragged his arm through the water blindly, warding off the slivers of ice that sluiced through the depths like javelins with a hasty impervious charm. Waves swelled all around him and he braced himself as the crest hit him.

Harry held his breath as the currents dragged him under. Then he summoned his power and water crystallized, forming a rampart. He clung to it with one hand, rising through the air with his wand alighting in azure. Voldemort ascended higher, sweeping his arm to the side to deflect the bolt of azure light, then shattering Harry's ice construct on the reverse stroke.

He raised his arm to shield his face from the hail of fragments as he fell once more, the shards glittering like crystals as they fell. His breath left him in a drowned whoosh as he fell headfirst. His legs kicked desperately as he reoriented himself and clawed his way to the surface, gasping.

_Too goddamn slow,_ he thought, beside himself with rage.

A rising tide of fear grew within him. This was not how he'd pictured how things would go. His confidence and determination to seize the initiation was all but gone. From the first blow there had been a faint stiffness in his joints that had made itself apparent from his first lunge with his wand, and his arm had begun to tire far faster than he could remember.

He was faster than this, cleverer, sharper - yet here he was, flailing around and desperate.

Bits of frost clung to his cloak as he reemerged, his lips peeled back in a wordless snarl. He treaded water, blinking to clear his vision as he gazed up at Voldemort again. His foe hovered above like an angel of death, cruel crimson eyes shining maliciously as he looked down at the drenched Boy-Who-Lived.

_Enough_.

He had to rethink his approach fast, before the whole thing got away from him.

_"Reghen ich malthata hazer,_" he chanted under his breath.

A cant of Crimean Gothic leaving his mouth. The water glimmered under the darkling sky and wisps of vapors started to rise from the surface in a layer of mist. Harry climbed to his feet as a floe of ice formulated under him. Like stepping stones, they formed as he circled around. Voldemort rose above the mist, looking at it warily as he muttered incantations under his breath. Harry's face was impassive as the glowing cloud of mist engulfed him, cutting off his line of sight beyond a few meters in each direction.

Like dimly shimmering smoke, it played tricks on his vision, intimating objects that were not there.

_"Interesting, Harry… this fog will not lift by conventional means…"_

Voldemort's voice echoed around him. He peered upward, trying to track its source as he repositioned himself silently. His teeth chattered, the cold from his plunge into the frigid waters still clinging to him.

_"I congratulate you. You've found a way to exert control over these waters… something I thought beyond your abilities."_

He strained to hear where the voice was coming from, but it was proving difficult. Whatever Voldemort had done to disperse his voice was effective. He walked aimlessly, wracking his brain for his next move. There was just water and that endless mist continually rising from it.

He narrowed his gaze, seeing the faint outline of silhouette. Slowly creeping forward, he leveled his wand and closed the distance with quiet efficacy… he just had to get close enough to confirm his target.

The mists parted, and he blinked, staring up at the fourth statue. The angel.

He'd wound up back at the edge of the stone promontory. He moved to reposition himself, but something held him there, and his eyes lingered on the angel.

Its sculptor had made her female, and in the glory of her youth. Her right leg was drawn up to her chest, and her left dangled over the side of the edge, the dainty foot dipped into the water. The gown was rippled as if in a light breeze, exposing the lower half of her calves. Garlands of ivy hung from her neck and were looped around her wrists, almost like bracelets. The face was a work of art, her lovely features lent a serene glow by the moonlight.

Spellbound, he found himself staring at her face unblinkingly.

He tried to decipher the expression carved in green stone. The lines of her face were soft and gentle, a certain sadness dwelling in the set of her eyes. He wasn't well-versed enough in art to put his finger on why, but there was something wistful in her expression as well, in the curve of her cupid-bow lips.

_Did Voldemort say your name…?_ he tried to remember.

He didn't think he had.

Nor was there any artefact of Slytherin that he could see anywhere on the statue.

_"You've become so quiet, Harry…"_

He snapped out of it. The mists swirled around him, as impenetrable as ever.

He retreated silently, backing away from the statue. It was such a trifling thing, but he didn't want any harm to befall her.

It faded from his sight, and he shut it from his mind.

He drew in a deep breath, centering himself and renewing his focus.

_Alright, you've had time to collect yourself... Let's try this again. _

He saw a shadow, darkness pooled in the fog.

It was time to take a chance.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

The bolt of green death shot through the cloud of mist, briefly painting the pale blue over with emerald before vanishing from view. He listened intently, hoping against all hope that he'd heard the splash of a body crashing into the water, but it was in vain.

_"Unforgivables now? You have fallen far, nemesis mine. If only Dumbledore could have been here to see this."_

"For you," Harry said, mouth twisting into a sneer, "I'll fall as far as I have to."

Mist curled and smoked around him. He ground his teeth as he searched the mists gently swirling above him. Then the color in the periphery of his vision shifted. He looked to his right. His only warning was that the mists were infused with a scarlet glow and were frothing, boiling – his eyes widened and he raised a shield a split second before the spell connected. Voldemort had descended back into the cover of the mist to line up his shot. The shroud of mist melted away in a coruscation of flames as the spell unwound into a sudden inferno. Flames reached for him, and he expertly brushed them aside with an elegant sweep of his wand.

And then Voldemort was there, in front of him, a look of triumph on his face as he brought his wand forward.

_Shit._

He hadn't seen enough of the wand movements to know what was coming. He yanked his cloak around him just before the curse struck. Whatever the curse was, it sheared through the protective charms enmeshing the cloak, weaves of faltering rainbow light bleeding from the torn fabric. Pain ignited his every fiber and the force of it was still enough to blast him down, the ice breaking underneath. Water flooded his mouth as he felt the icy water coil around his limbs and pull him down, headfirst.

The coppery taste of blood gurgled into his mouth as he floundered, struggling to find purchase in the water, and through the rippling haze he saw Voldemort hovering above him, red eyes triumphant and condescending. is mouth was moving, and Harry could read his lips.

_A shame that this was the best you could do…_

_..._

They call it the endgame because the important moves have already been made. Everything has been determined several turn before, and the rest is merely a matter of formality. One either fought against fate, defying the inevitable as it looms ever closer. Or, one remains patient, making the final push and letting the inertia of earlier decisions carry you forward.

He was falling, the tattered remains of his cloak floating at the edges of his vision. Bubbles of air left his mouth.

He'd always thought the final battle would be fought with his friends. The allies, the Order of the Phoenix, the Ministry of Magic's battalions of Aurors and Hit Wizard squadrons, and strange and unusual folk all bound by a shared cause, all who had something to lose and saw something precious in preserving the future of the wizarding world. The peoples and creatures unified under a single banner, ready to fight.

He'd never imagined that it would be a solitary endeavor.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his wand fall alongside him.

And beyond it, they were back. The ghosts of his past, silent and pitiful, dying in front of him again.

He saw Albus again. He saw the crow's feet around his closed, sunken eyes, and he resigned himself to seeing the closest thing he'd had to a grandfather die. But nothing happened. Albus floated motionlessly, and Harry realized he had never seen how the old headmaster had perished.

_We could have beaten him together, if you were here…_

In the end, Albus had died a hypocrite, but Harry understood and bore him no ill will. The headmaster's place had always been at Hogwarts, and he would not abandon it even for him.

He fell deeper, the last traces of light starting to die out.

He stared down at the abyss, the phantoms of his friends melding with the dark.

Hesitantly he moved his limbs. The way the water felt… It clung to him like a straightjacket and when he struggled harder, the vice-like grip tightened.

It was not normal behavior he'd expect from water, not by any means… but… maybe there was something off about the lake, beyond its magical nature. Something subtle.

He frowned, mood pensive as he replayed the first phase of their duel in his head.

The way his wand movements had been microseconds slower than usual. The way Voldemort seemed to hold back his assault a little too effortlessly. He had attributed it to his lack of expectation of facing Voldemort, and the nighttime hour. But nothing could have made his arm tire that fast.

A jinx.

Truly worthy of Slytherin's bloodline.

_Merlin's ghost_, he thought, suddenly infuriated. _This lake infected me with a damned bloody jinx._

He renewed his struggles against the enfolding coils of water, kicking and thrashing about. Rage coursed through him. His initial offensive could have gone drastically different if only he'd caught on sooner. That delay might have sealed the fates of thousands and altered history for the worse.

He would not let this stop him, he vowed in a silent scream, the last of his air leaving his opened mouth -

His magic roared and he was suddenly falling faster. The wind howled, and he understood that he was freefalling through the air far above the forest, a bird that had lost its wings. His dark unwavering focus settled on Voldemort as his dark form rose higher, the mist not yet reformed and giving Harry a clear shot.

_Incussus confringo!_

Voldemort didn't see it coming and it struck him in the back wih the sound of a thunderclap. Even as Voldemort's form was hurled away from Harry's midair vantage point his wand arm was tracking him, flinging a succession of dark curses at the Dark Lord. His heart leapt as each hit home, blasting Voldemort into the clutches of the mist.

He slammed into the highest branches and his teeth rattled as he fell through the canopy. The sound of timber breaking rang out like gunshots, one after the other. A stout branch broke his fall enough so that he could snatch at the one immediately below. He caught it, and dragged himself onto it.

He doubted any one of those curses had been cast in the last decade, anywhere in the world. Even if Voldemort had survived, the tide had suddenly turned in his favor.

His eyes scanned the mist anxiously.

So focused was he that he did not notice that the tree behind the one serving as his perch had begun moving.

It drew within striking range, pulled back, and swung, slamming its branches violently into its brethren. It cleaved straight through the wood, sending Harry tumbling through the air like a rag doll.

He slammed into the ground and doubled over in pain. His vision swam. He sidled up back in a blind effort to put distance between him and whatever had attacked him.

The tree trunk at his back moved.

He froze.

Dozens - hundreds - of them swarmed around him, darkness pooling in the hollows of rotting heartwood and giving them the semblance of eyes. All focused on him.

Wood-wights, empowered by dark magic. Their branches had suddenly become horribly disfigured, some sharpened like stakes, others grown hideously broad and blunt as if they were wielding trolls' clubs.

_Fuck._

_..._

Voldemort watched as his enchanted wood-wights swarmed his younger adversary. His breathing was labored and sweat lined his brow, but he was still very much alive. The trees hacked and stabbed away at their solitary prey with unnatural strength and soon he lost sight of the body entirely, buried under the weight of the twisted guardians of the Forbidden Forest.

His eyes flared with satisfaction as he watched the slaughter.

Then there was a great flare of light. It was muted by the press of wood-wights, but traces of blinding light shone through the opening as if a miniature sun had materialized within, a demonic yellow with veins of white coursing through it. An eruption of fire tore through the air and the ground shook as if the hammer of a giant had fallen. Their limbs were stilled in mid-motion for the measure of a heartbeat - then the inner enclosure of wood-wights nearest to Harry was incinerated. The layer of cursed trees beyond the first too was incinerated. Charred remains fell and there was a keening, shuddering groan as finally the outer ring of cursed trees slunk back, burning and sliced in half.

Harry Potter stood at the epicenter of it all. His robes were bloodied, and his left arm sagged bonelessly but his eyes burned furiously as he swung his wand arm around his head in a lassoing motion.

A fiery whip lashed out and incinerated the last of the wights in a roar of furious crimson plates covered his body save for the joints, cracked but unbroken. Pieces of the porcelain-like shell fell from his form, and his alabaster face resembled the death masks worn by the Northumbrian warlords of old. The eyeholes were aglow with an eerie, green light, the sclera swallowed whole by icy jade and the dark slits vivid and alive with a predatory, seething, intelligence.

"Interesting," Voldemort mused, unconsciously turning his wand over in his hand.

A wall of ash swelled outward like a grey avalanche, billowing as far as the lakeshore and the length of the Quidditch field into the forest. It settled like a sickened snowfall, coating the ferns and bracken in death.

With a flick of his wand the armor was gone, and the human skin was back and his eyes faded to their normal brightness.

"A trick of Fiendfyre."

Harry'd meant to sound casual and brash, but it came out like a distracted mutter. The activation of the wood-wights had blind-sided him, and despite his last second save, they had pummeled him good. and he was now paying the price for his shortsightedness.

"Self-transfiguration too?"

He fought with all his might to stay upright as the pounding in his head thundered on, dulling Voldemort's words. Unless he was mistaken, he thought he detected a note of admiration in his voice. The first thing Voldemort had expressed in all their encounters besides contempt and condescension, when he was not trying to tempt him to his side. He felt like laughing.

"You made me break my promise," Harry ground out.

His vision steadied, and he got a good look at his enemy.

The obsidian armor was warped, the plates had melted and looked like the glass in the aftermath of a fire. The pauldrons had dissolved and had fused to his shoulders in the same manner as the chausses had fused to the flesh of his legs. Harry saw with a sadistic thrill of satisfaction at seeing the damage he'd wrought. The exposed skin at Voldemort's neck was blackened and malformed, frozen in a line of gruesome, bubbling mass.

But if his adversary felt any agony, he showed no sign of it.

"I imagine I've made you break many promises," Voldemort answered.

The Dark Lord extinguished the blaze with a simple flick of his wand, leaving them in the dark once more. i

Tall and unafraid, Harry stood with the remains of his cloak clinging to him. The two enemies regarded one another.

The banes of each other's existence. The ones who could not live while the other survived. Dark Lord and Boy-Who-Lived.

It was a momentous occasion, Harry reflected.

He felt the last of the tension ebb away, the jinx fading away and the knots finally loosening their excruciating hold on his back and around his shoulder blades. He felt fresh, a young man eager to make the kill. It was indeed a pity that Albus was not here to see this.

"I once asked you if you had any idea of the potential you hold…" Voldemort murmured.

"I didn't, at the time," Harry said shortly. "But I've realized it now… I had help at the start… but this is the results of my toil. Years of searching, learning, killing…"

There'd been times – few and far between, but times nonetheless – when he had begun feeling overconfident. His mentors had scolded him and worked him doubly hard, using all of their skill to grind him into the ground of the dueling chamber and bring him back down to earth. Voldemort had not been tested since besting Albus Dumbledore. Five years of stagnation, of torpor, while Harry had held to the reverse course, growing into his power at a pace that frightened his tutors for the ephemeral time he was with them.

"Not yet," Voldemort said softly, "You have not yet seen the depths of magic as I have…"

"Oh no?"

"You grow arrogant, Harry."

"Not so arrogant as yourself… Right after asking me that," Harry said suddenly, "You asked me to side with you…"

A brief silence elapsed, Voldemort's face inscrutable all the while.

"Have I not grown to become too much of a threat for you to let me live?" Harry asked sarcastically.

Voldemort shrugged.

"Not quite yet… has it ever occurred to you, that you should no longer be measuring yourself against me, a single man… but an empire?"

Voldemort looked him dead in the eye, meeting his gaze knowingly.

"Have you not been watching, all these years of assassinating my servants and slinking away into the dark? Have you given any thought at all to the changes I have made to our world?"

Harry's eyes darted away.

He had seen. He had given thought.

Diagon Alley, under the invisibility cloak. Banners of glittering green skulls with snakes dwelling within their gaping mouths. Boarded up windows and sentries pacing along the watchtower that had been erected over the ruins of Gringotts.

Infiltrating the Ministry. He'd seen no sign of the Fountain of Magical Brethren. In its stead, a gigantic statue of black stone dominated the center of the Atrium. A vast sculpture of a witch and wizard seated on ornately carved thrones, made of hundreds and hundreds of naked bodies of men, women, and children. Their ugly, stupid, pitiful faces looking at the floor. And engraved at the base of the structure…

_Magic is might._

"Yes," Voldemort said, his voice low and intent, as if he was urging him.

Harry hadn't realized he'd said that aloud.

"Do you see now? The task before you is impossible… You are no longer the hero that this society once revered. You have not but a handful of enemies, as you did before my resurrection, but thousands. Fear rules, now, but in time… In time, they will learn to appreciate living in a world without undesirable elements plaguing them. They will find their ambition that has been killed in its infancy for generations by the likes of Dumbledore and his ilk."

Voldemort smiled.

"So yes. I ask you once more what I asked then… Join me. You need not continue fighting in vain… I will not punish you. I will even consider compromise where it is possible. Do you wish for the Muggleborns to be raised to full equality? Request it, and I will pass the decree, and make an example of those who protest. Magic runs through all of our veins, after all… unity is what we need… Imagine the suffering you could end," he urged.

The thought of this terrified Harry. That he could still be tempted. Still fall into the trap of thinking that, perhaps, Voldemort had ideals and, in his own mind, a cause worth fighting for. But he knew what lay down that road.

"With you at my side, I will guide Britain to the pinnacle of glory. It will be a time of renaissance, Harry," he said with growing fervor, eyes alight with passion, "No more will our kind hide like rats, conceding the entire world to Muggles. I can share with you the secrets of immortality and power beyond reckoning. We will have lifetimes to do what we wish to this place. Magic will rein supreme on this earth. We will surpass the Founders in our deeds… even Merlin himself."

Harry smiled back as he looked up, jaw tightening, mind racing.

It was true, what Voldemort had said. He'd failed his role of savior miserably, letting his world fall to irreparable depths. The task was nigh impossible – Voldemort had cunning lieutenants and the worst elements of the Ministry would declare war against him to retain their power and status.

But he owed it to everyone who had fallen to get him to this point to try. They'd given him everything so that he could be justified in his confidence that he could end this monstrosity's unlife.

And for all the burdens, the expectations of the dead, it still all came down to one thing.

He had a personal vendetta.

"I know you've turned many against me," he said, grinding his teeth, "but I'll – I'll undo what you've inflicted. I'll show them that they have nothing to fear, and you'll lose them, Riddle. Do you understand that? You'll lose them. Then, I'll tear down that desecration in the Ministry's atrium. I'll tear down every banner of the Dark Mark from all of the Alleys and set them aflame."

His shoulders trembled with barely suppressed rage.

"Once I've spat on your corpse, I'm going to walk down this path until I arrive at the castle's gates. I'll knock – just like any polite guest - and when your pathetic Death Eaters show up to answer, I'm going to kill every last one of them…And… and I'll see Hogwarts restored," he finished wearily.

Harry shook his head, his smile tired but proud.

"So no, I'm not joining you, Tom," he said quietly. "Kindly never ask me to again."

Voldemort gazed at him dispassionately.

"Goodbye, Harry Potter," he intoned.

They stood motionless for a brief moment, staring each other down.

This time Voldemort made the opening move, throwing a Stygian death curse at him. Harry flicked his wand, and the Fiendfyre whip materialized and sliced through the air, carving through the oncoming beam of light and continuing toward Voldemort. The Dark Lord caught it with his bare hand, sneering, and his wand wove a smooth contour in the air, severing the whip and the two halves dissolved into smoke.

Voldemort stalked forward, cycling his curses in patterns that he knew inside and out. Harry picked them off with ease, but panic spiked as he recognized the last of them. He contorted his back awkwardly, desperately trying to avoid it. He did by the slimmest of margins; he could feel his skin crawl as the spell skimmed past, a strand of his cloak disintegrating as it was caught in its path.

Voldemort looped his wand dramatically, and thrust it forward, a sphere of thrumming dark energy hurtling forward.

Harry cast the countercurse immediately, amber light surging from his wand.

The dense orbs of light collided, erupting in a shockwave that sent ash and forest detritus scattering through the air and causing both of them to recoil from the backlash.

The air cloyed with brimstone and ozone, heavy dark magic lending it an electric charge. The pendant was burning as if it had been freshly forged, feeding off the taint. The searing heat was enough to draw him back to the here and now. Harry coughed and squinted through the falling ashes.

Harry batted aside another curse that went his way, his arm buckling with the effort of turning it aside.

He saw Voldemort and launched a blitzkrieg of ancient curses, scything death charms, doom and entropy given form. His wand danced, weaving through his entire arsenal. Voldemort defended himself, wand working furiously to ward off the ceaseless rush of curses. Harry drove him back steadily, pressing closer and closer.

Trees shattered around them, showering them with fragments of singed bark. Hillsides crumbled under the fury of deflected spellwire and craters were carved out. At one point, they were so close they could have reached out and touched one another, before Harry finally broke through, puncturing a hastily-cast shield and blasting Voldemort a dozen feet away before he recovered. The segment of obsidian plate that took the curse turned to dust and Harry stepped forward to end him.

"Not so easily, Potter!" Voldemort spat, all traces of his earlier courtesy gone.

Mid-step he was suddenly encased in a cocoon of scouring wind that closed off his vision to what was outside. Like the coils of water the winds wrapped around him, making it was almost impossible for him to move. He saw a flash of indigo grow in intensity and the grey whirlwind went awash in color. Reacting without thinking, he focused all his strength in his wrist and rotated it, managing to a half-circle

The wind cocoon thickened and turned a pure white as he seized control of it, then Voldemort's follow-up curse set the shield ablaze, veins of indigo spilling across the surface of his barrier. The rest of the spell cycle made contact soon after, landing one after another. Harry had the eerie impression that he was trapped inside a dying red giant. Outside, nebulae of every shade imaginable swirled, ripples traveling from the points of impact before the splashes of color were dispersed by the wind.

He saw sickly green.

He tore free of the cocoon, diving sideways as the Killing Curse tore through its dissipating remains. His wand was already moving, and he bared his teeth as he unveiled his own ace up his sleeve, words of an extinct tongue sounding themselves in his mind. Crimson eyes followed him, dispassionate at first, then narrowing in consternation.

He hit the ground and rolled out of the path of another Killing Curse. He rose to his feet, wand brandished and the beginnings of another curse on of his lips.

Black blood was welling up from a hole in Voldemort's chest, unprotected by the destroyed obsidian. Skin hardened to the consistency of iron by black magic was broken, and flesh knitted with the essence of the nether by necromantic rituals was torn apart. Voldemort's lifeblood flowed in rivulets down the of the rest of his ruined armor, tracing paths down the warped etchings and scrollwork.

Voldemort stared, swaying as he began to fall.

"I don't know that spell..." he muttered, distraught.

"Wouldn't you expect you to," Harry said breathlessly, "You didn't invent it."

He stood there with his wand raised, heart hammering in his chest.

It occurred to him that this was_ it._

This was real; he was not dreaming of the Dark Lord's defeat as he had so many times before.

It was playing out before his very eyes - he was watching his nemesis's last moments.

The Dark Lord collapsed, leaves clingly wetly to his corpse.

The pendant dulled to a lifeless ruby red in the twilight.

He blinked.

He had done it.

Voldemort was dead.

_Dead_, he echoed in his head.

He hadn't just killed him. He'd defeated him head on, somehow overcoming a nigh undetectable jinx that had almost been fatal before it was too late.

He lowered his wand, but couldn't stop shaking.

_But it's not over yet_, he thought dazedly.

He knew, somewhere on the horizon, Hogwarts still waited for him.

He heard a rustle of movement, and turned.

There was someone standing in his way. Or rather, something, standing there right up in his personal space.

A gasp forced its way out of his lips as he lurched, feeling something lethal tear through his body.

His mouth opened, a weak murmur leaving his lips.

He was falling to his knees. The green angel from the lakeside withdrew her bloodied hand and held it with her other hand primly. He looked up at it uncomprehendingly, feeling shock locking up his body.

_When did Voldemort enchant it...?_

He fell over, his head swimming with an overwhelming pressure. The angel gently closed his hands around something. Tangled vines of ivy clasped each other, twined around her bared shoulders and waspish waist, almost like a sash across her gown. The ivy bracelets around her wrists tickled the skin of his forearms as they slid down slightly.

Thorns bit into his hand and he stared down at it dumbly.

A white rose.

His eyes shot back up. The green angel turned its back and started to walk away, wings demurely folded behind it. Harry reached out after it, but his wand fell from his nerveless fingers.  
_  
He never told me your name..._he thought as the nameless beauty disappeared, swallowed whole by the shadows under the forest's eaves.

Did enchanted constructs even behave like this? That final gesture had almost been... _romantic_?

His gaze fell back to the flower.

The rose was white no longer, sullied by the blood seeping from the lacerated flesh of his palm and fingers. He felt a shadow of regret. It really was too lovely to be tainted in this manner. His strength gave out and his arm collapsed, no longer strong enough to support his weight.

He let go of the questions. They were meaningless at this point.

His hand clawed madly at the ground for a moment in search for his wand, churning through grime and ash. His fingers found it amid the muck and closed around it, but he lacked the strength to lift it.

He dragged it back to him and cradled it as best as he could.

Holly.

Phoenix feather.

_I still remember when I found you... how right it felt when I held you for the first time._

His breath rattled in his throat as he lay there, shivering.

"You're still here," he whispered. "Did you… enjoy the show?"

He tried to crack a grin, but it was twisted and he knew it looked grotesque.

The owl as it had before kept its distance, glowing amber eyes shining from the darkness. It no longer seemed very owlish. It didn't crane its neck in that peculiar manner or hoot in response. Rather, it looked like it was judging him.

He looked again to Voldemort's unmoving corpse. His gasps were getting shallower.

"I killed him," he told the owl softly, "I did it…"

His words subsided, and his mouth went slack. It was terrifying, not being able to speak as his lungs filled with blood.

He lay there, listening to the uneven rush of his own tortured breathing.  
_  
My dying breaths_, he thought.

Hogwarts. The Death Eaters were still there, but thoughts of them faded away. He did not want to torment himself with the present… instead, images of a lively commonplace flitted through his mind. Studying by the fireplace with his housemates around him. The quirks of the classrooms and the professors. The wind of the cold October air, the raucous cheers rising from every corner of the Quidditch stadium, and the fragrant aromas of the greenhouse.

He remembered other things, too. His godfather falling through the Veil. A maze, a dragon, and a lake. Hundreds of dementors swarming around him and a silver stag proudly standing before him and driving them back. A chamber in the bowels of the castle, lower even than the Slytherin dungeons and the monster that slept within. He saw keys with wings and giant chess pieces looming over him and his best friends.

_I'm sorry I couldn't see this to the end..._

He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to oblivion.

...

_**AN: **Happy Valentine's Day, hope you enjoyed Harry vs. Voldemort._

_I set up a poll on my profile page, I'm interested in knowing which of my three HP stories readers want to see updated most. So vote and leave a review if you'd like._


	3. Ante-Mortem

**Harry Potter and the Time of Green Angel Vespers**

_Chapter 3 / Ante-Mortem_

by en extase

The last time Harry ever dreams is on the endless July night that presages his seventeenth birthday. It is a reverie, a meditation unfolding in a calm adagio. He is curled up, floating down a winding river of time and reflections. Faint laughter and carefree voices mingling, the warmth of a fireplace, a bundle of faded love letters, these are the last vestiges of happier days. When morn comes, he wakens in the halls of a decaying, shadowed sanctum and forfeits the ability to dream for the rest of his life. Which makes this all the more puzzling, for it is dusk, and it is dawn. It is midday and deepest night all at once.

He is standing under an alien formaldehyde sky aglow with the light of a meteor storm. The falling meteorites blaze ruby streaks in their wake, razor nails raking through delicate skin. A number of them shrivel to nothingness, leaving only clouds of iridescent stardust to mark their passage. The winds lie still and the dust hangs in the air like funeral shrouds being draped over a corpse. The battlements overlooking the quad feel firm under his feet and gives him a bird's eye view of most of Hogwarts and its outlying structures. The white rose is clutched in his hand, drenched in blood.

If not a dream, and not reality - for this was certainly not reality - then what was this?

_The delirium of a dying mind, perhaps._

Mounted on the gatehouse some ways below, Norahdi stares up at him coldly. Idris is there by the shore of the Black Lake, alone and desolate. Enarni stands at the center of the fountain in the courtyard, rivulets of water enfolding her. All of them are facing him. Their faces are hidden by hoods, but he can feel their pupiless marble eyes fixated on him, staring.

He looks down to his feet, hiding his own eyes behind long forelocks of hair. His skin crawls; he feels naked under their sightless gazes. Slytherin's bloodline and his did not get along well even in death, it seemed.

The green angel is there too, hands clasped in prayer as she watches over the castle grounds and the masses of people scurrying to and fro lovingly, the way a mother looks at her children. He follows her gaze.

Down below, Hogwarts bustles with the mimicry of life. Students roam the courtyards, clad in robes bearing trimming in the colors of their houses and swinging their tome-laden book bags. They walk between classes in their cliques, their mouths moving but he can't hear the sound of their chatter at this distance. There are so many carefree days in his past that this peaceful bliss could have been drawn from, but they blur together, negatives of photographs tainted by the touch of sunlight.

A gravelly noise draws his attention. He looks to his right to see a massive scar open along the eastern facade of the central tower, interrupting the smooth lines and the flawless symmetry. It is corrosive, spreading across the masonry face like an infection. The buttresses holding up the balconies start to break, fragments of stone falling little by little in a slow trickle to the ground far below.

He hears footsteps, and stiffens. He turns, a lump in his throat, as Albus Dumbledore climbs the flight of stairs connecting the lower ramparts to the battlements.

He is as Harry last saw him, the nose as crooked as ever, his beard long and silvered with age. He looks so very old. It pains Harry to see him like this. His face is without its customary warmth and looks as if it has been hewn from stone, bespeaking a bone-deep exhaustion.

"Professor..." he whispered, choking on his words slightly. "Didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon."

Dumbledore frowns, and his gaze drifts to the left, over the crenellations in the walls to the students gathered in the courtyard. His expression softens and for a fleeting instant this is the Albus Dumbledore that Harry remembers, but that instant is over and his face hardens as he looks at him again.

"I fought to defend them, Harry," he says in his calm, measured way, "... yet you ran."

This is what he dreads above all else: having to look the departed in the eye, and telling them why he left their younger brothers and sisters to the Dark Lord's mercies. But he had never thought that he would feel the same way standing before Dumbledore.

His throat tightens painfully.

These words _hurt._

"You ordered me to," he says quietly.

It rings hollow even as the words leave his mouth. He hails from Gryffindor, the House of the noble and brave, and cowardice has never been easy for him to rationalize.

_But what was I supposed to do? If I stayed and fought, I would have died with you and it would've all be over..._

_I bided my time, and killed him, in the end. Just like you hoped._

Dumbledore broods over his answer, appearing conflicted. He knits his brow in confusion, as if trying to summon a half-remembered memory lingering just outside his reach.

He slowly shakes his head, still wearing that damnably neutral expression.

A shadow falls across Harry's face, and he balls his hands into fists. The thorns bite deeper and his blood flows. It drips down his fingers and steadily seeps into the cracks between the fieldstones. It sinks deeper, and deeper, and Hogwarts gratefully drinks, the crimson mingling with the darkness that slumbered under the immaculate skin.

"Say something..." Harry pleads.

A rush of vertigo hits him without warning just as his scar flares in pain, the twin sensation staggering him and nearly bringing him to his knees.

He sees a castle crumbling into dust, the foundation stones cracking and shattering and the towers coming down one by one. Gryffindor Tower falls first, then Ravenclaw and the bell towers.

He knows at this point that this is not Dumbledore, no more real than the silent specter drowned in the lake.

And even so, he still wants to hear his voice. He's come this far and all he wants is a reassurance, some sense of _closure._

_Go on. Say something... anything..._

_Congratulate me... Castigate me..._

_Tell me how death is the next great adventure to the well-organized mind..._

But Dumbledore does not say this.

Instead, the man he venerates beyond all others looks at him flatly, and tells him, _"This is brain death."_

With that, Dumbledore turns his back on his former charge and begins walking away. He moves to follow on reflex, but the fault lines are already there and there might as well be an ocean that separates them. He catches himself as he feels something cave beneath him, saving his balance just in time.

Down the walls crash, breaking and burning.

He purses his lips, watching the headmaster's retreating back as the old man reaches the quad. A group of first years crowd Dumbledore's stately form, yelling as they tugged on his sleeves and regale him with stories of their lessons and display the spells they have learned. He stops to listen, his laugh benevolent and blue eyes twinkling over his half-moon spectacles. A stone wavers in the air and he is patient as he explains the proper casting of the levitation charm to the overeager boy and his snickering friends. All around them Hogwarts is unmade, the inner cloisters falling into the innumerable chasms that open below them. They yawn wider, linking together and consuming more of the castle.

He blinks.

No one would see the tears in this place, but his eyes remain dry. Sometimes he wonders whether he'd sacrificed the ability to cry as well, and if so, whether what he had gained in return had been worth it.

Dumbledore and the first years are gone, and he chuckles sadly as he realizes that he is alone. Nothing, not even mute hallucations to keep him company.

The abyss circles him, and he is unshaken by the cacophony of sound assaulting his ears. He is too numb to shrink back in fright and there is nowhere to run anyway.

The ramparts break at last and the world tilts, the lay of Hogwarts uprooted and folding in on itself. He is falling now. The seven floors of Hogwarts blur past and a hurricane of shattered mortar swirls around him as he falls through the fractures, through hidden crevices of Hogwarts that even he had never known, before they too split apart and turn formless, a rain of dust.

The statues are falling alongside him, figurines dropped from a hand; they still have not released him from their gaze. Enarni is swept away first, then Idris is taken too, joining her mother in the fury of the maelstrom. He watches as Norahdi glares down at him, even as the hurricane of stone shears away the rest of him, taking his limbs and then his torso. The head is last to go as it too disintegrates into dust.

Then there is only darkness, and the sensation of falling, falling.

So much work to do, so much left unfinished.

His scar pulses again.

He feels the rush of magic and bright fiery threads crisscross through the air as if they are chains, sealing the way shut as he falls. A rainfall of runes springs into existence all surround him, lighting up the abyss. He cranes his neck to try and read them, but they are foreign to his jaded eyes. Indecipherable hieroglyphics of turqouise and persimmon, aquamarine and lapis luzili, all melding together into a seamless scollwork, crawling down, down with him.

The green angel is there, wings fluttering as she flits ahead of the threads. Her eyes are fixated on him like those of the other three had been, her serene expression unchanged. She raises her hand to her lips, and blows him a kiss.

He cracks a halfhearted smile.

Light frays the edges of his vision, blotting out the green angel.

Death and nothingness.

Afterlife and renewal.

The next great adventure, or the last dead end.

_Whatever_, he thinks dispassionately.

He will deal with it when the time comes.

...

_**AN:** Thanks to those of you that reviewed, I enjoyed reading every one! But I got less reviews for the second chapter than I did for the first, so let's see if we can do better this time. ____Harry and Elise meet next chapter, r_eview and help me speed things along. 


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